Preacher's Fire

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t know,” Preacher said. “That fella Brutus might not take kindly to it if I was to show up again.”

  “Brutus will take kindly to what he’s told to take kindly to. And everyone there needs to get used to seeing you around, since I visit the place frequently myself and you’re going to be with me in the future.”

  Preacher shrugged. “All right. Sounds good. I’m obliged to you.”

  The driver had gotten down from the seat to open the carriage door, but Beaumont paused before climbing into the vehicle.

  “We’re going to have to get you some better clothes,” he said to Preacher. “Something more suited to your position. And we’re definitely going to have to get rid of that hat.”

  Preacher grinned. “Fine by me, boss. I never did like it.”

  Beaumont nodded toward the driver’s seat. “Climb up there with Lorenzo. You can get acquainted with him on the drive over to Jessie’s.”

  Preacher nodded. He wasn’t surprised by the order. Beaumont had sat and drank with him in the saloon, but that was when he was still thanking Preacher for saving his life. Now that Preacher was working for him—was, in effect, one of Beaumont’s servants—there had been a subtle shift in the man’s attitude. There would always be a certain divide between them now.

  That was all right with Preacher. He sure as hell hadn’t come to St. Louis to make friends with the son of a bitch, he thought.

  He swung up onto the driver’s seat while Beaumont got into the carriage. Lorenzo closed the door and climbed up beside Preacher. As the wizened old black man took up the reins, Preacher said, “So you’re Lorenzo.”

  “Hmmph,” Lorenzo sniffed.

  “Jim Donnelly,” Preacher introduced himself. “I’m gonna be workin’ for the boss, too. Or are you a slave?”

  “I’m a freedman,” the driver said proudly, reminding Preacher of Brutus. “Mr. Beaumont, he don’t keep no slaves. Says it ain’t fittin’.” He paused. “If’n you ask me, he knows that you can own a man just as good with wages as you can with a whip.”

  Preacher knew exactly what Lorenzo meant.

  The air was sticky this close to the river, but at least it was a little cooler than it had been earlier in the day. The ride up to Jessie’s Place helped clear Preacher’s head. He was still a little fuzzy from the brandy when the carriage rolled up to the house, but he felt better than when they’d left Dupree’s.

  When Lorenzo brought the carriage to a stop, Preacher said, “I’ll get the door.”

  “The hell you will! I don’t know what your job is, boy, but anything to do with this here carriage is my responsibility. You just get out’n my way.”

  Grinning, Preacher said, “Fine with me.” He jumped down from the box and stepped back to give Lorenzo room.

  Beaumont climbed down from the carriage and motioned for Preacher to follow him. As they went up the walk, Beaumont said, “You never made it inside yesterday, did you?”

  “Nope. The front door was as far as I got.”

  Beaumont grinned. “Then you’re in for a treat, Jim. This is the finest sporting house west of Chicago.”

  Someone must have been watching from inside, because the door swung open before they even reached the porch. A big man stepped out, and in the light from inside, Preacher recognized him as Brutus.

  “Mr. Beaumont!” Brutus greeted them. “It’s good to see you, as always, sir.” He turned toward Preacher. “And this is—” Brutus recognized him and stared at him in surprise. “You again!”

  “Yes, I believe you and Jim here have met,” Beaumont said with an amused tone in his voice. “Jim works for me now, Brutus, so you’ll be seeing a lot of him.”

  “Is that so?” Brutus said, then went on hurriedly and not too sincerely, “Well, that’s just fine. You know, Mr. Beaumont, that any fella you say is all right is always welcome here.”

  “That goes without saying,” Beaumont responded. “Is the parlor empty?”

  “Uh, no, sir, there are several gentlemen in there right now, makin’ up their minds—”

  “Then empty it.” Beaumont gave the order in a curt tone that allowed for no argument. “Empty it of customers, anyway. The girls stay. And tell Miss Jessie that I’m here.”

  “Yes, sir, right away. If you and . . .” Brutus’s jaw visibly tightened. “If you and this gentleman want to wait in the sittin’ room, I’ll be right back when they’re ready for you in the parlor.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Brutus ushered them into a small room furnished with a divan and two comfortable armchairs. There was an unlit stone fireplace on one wall. Everything in the room, even the smallest item, looked like it would cost more than he made in a year of fur trapping, Preacher thought.

  Beaumont motioned for Preacher to have a seat, then indicated a tasseled bellpull on the wall. “Do you want me to have someone bring us something to drink?”

  “Not on my account,” Preacher said. “I’m still a mite dizzy from all that brandy,” he added, even though he really wasn’t.

  “I understand. With the treat you have awaiting you, you don’t want your faculties to be impaired. You want to enjoy this experience to the fullest.”

  Preacher managed to put a smile on his face. “Yeah, I reckon.”

  He’d been able to dodge the issue back at Dupree’s when he’d refused Beaumont’s offer to have that blond serving girl go with him. He sensed that he wouldn’t be able to get away with that again. Like it or not, he was going to have to go upstairs with one of the girls who worked here at Jessie’s Place.

  Not that he wouldn’t enjoy it, more than likely, he reminded himself. He had the same appetites as any other man, and probably healthier than most, when you got right down to it. He had enjoyed the intimate company of a number of women in his life. And he had nothing against gals who worked in houses like this. In fact, his first love had been a whore.

  He felt a slight pang as he remembered Jennie and the tragic fate that had awaited her. Jennie . . . Jessie . . . Preacher wondered if the similarity in names was one thing that drew him to the woman who ran this house. In addition to her beauty, of course, and the fact that she hadn’t hesitated to point that little gun at him. She would have used it if she’d needed to, as well. He felt sure of that.

  Beaumont slid a cigar from his vest pocket and put it in his mouth. He didn’t light it, but rather said around the tightly rolled cylinder of tobacco, “Whatever you like in a woman, Jim, you’ll find it here. Jessie has more than a dozen girls working for her, and every one of them a true beauty. Redheads, blondes, nigger wenches . . . I believe there’s even an Indian squaw, if you’re looking for something more exotic. I don’t think any of them are younger than fifteen, but if you’d like something of a more tender age, say twelve, I’m sure that can be arranged by the next time we visit.”

  Preacher fought down the impulse to step across the room and strangle the sick, evil son of a bitch. He forced himself to say, “No, I reckon just a, uh, regular gal will do just fine for me, Mr. Beaumont.”

  Beaumont took the cigar out of his mouth and gave a casual wave with that hand. “Suit yourself.”

  Figuring it would be a good idea to continue to make conversation, Preacher asked, “You go with the gals who work here, too?”

  “Me?” Beaumont laughed. “I told you, Jim, only the finest things in life for me. And the finest thing in this house . . . is Miss Jessie herself.”

  That answer didn’t surprise Preacher, but it made his jaw clench again. He was saved from having to respond to it by the arrival of Brutus, who stepped into the sitting room and said, “The parlor’s ready for you, sir.”

  Beaumont put the cigar in his mouth again and bit down on it. “Thank you, Brutus.” He held out a hand for Preacher to go first. “After you, my friend. After what you did, you’re the man of the evening, after all.”

  That comment caused Brutus to give Preacher a narrow-eyed glance, and Preacher knew he had to be wondering what Beaumont was
referring to. Preacher didn’t enlighten him. Instead, he followed Brutus down a hallway with an expensive rug on the floor. Paintings of nude women and various scenes of debauchery hung on the corridor’s walls.

  Preacher felt a little leery about having Beaumont at his back, but the man seemed to have accepted everything that had happened tonight. Preacher had to proceed as if that were true, anyway. He was in too deep to back out now.

  Brutus opened a pair of double doors and stood aside to let Preacher enter the parlor first. Again Preacher felt a twinge of unease. There was nothing dangerous waiting for him in the elegantly furnished parlor, however.

  Not unless you counted more than half a dozen nearly naked women as dangerous, he corrected himself.

  Behind him, Shad Beaumont chuckled and said, “What did I tell you, Jim? And this is only a sampling of the delights available to you here.”

  The women were all good looking, all right, no doubt about that. Thankfully, all of them were grown, too. Preacher figured the youngest one was nineteen or twenty. The others were all within a year or two of that age. One had auburn hair flowing around her shoulders, two were blondes, and the others had varying shades of brown hair, from a light chestnut to a deep mahogany. Some were tall, some were short. All of them were well shaped, although there was variation in that, too, from slender and lissome to plush and rounded.

  Each and every one of them wore a practiced smile of welcome that hinted at all sorts of carnal delights to come.

  Beaumont draped an arm around Preacher’s shoulders and stood beside him, grinning and chewing the cigar. “What do you think?” he asked. “See anything that appeals to you? Nothing like that back on the farm, is there?”

  Preacher swallowed hard. He didn’t have to pretend. And maybe this wasn’t going to be such a chore after all, he thought.

  “I appreciate this, boss,” he said.

  “Well, go ahead. Take your pick.” Beaumont laughed. “Hell, take two or three of them if you want. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  “No, I reckon one will do.”

  Preacher ran his eyes over the women. Three of them sat on a divan, and the others had arranged themselves around it. The gauzy shifts they wore revealed just about all the details of their bodies. Preacher would have enjoyed romping with any of them, but his gaze was drawn back to one of the blondes. She was giving him the same sultry smile as all the others, but he thought he detected a trace of impishness in the expression. Her face was rounded and pretty. She had a scattering of freckles across her nose and a little dimple in her chin, which was a little too prominent for her to be classically beautiful. He lifted a hand to point at her and said, “I’d admire to make the acquaintance of that lady right there.”

  She stood up from where she had been sitting on the divan and came toward him. Beaumont said, “Ah, you picked our little Cassandra. An excellent choice, Jim.”

  Cassandra came to a stop in front of Preacher and held out her hand. “Hello,” she said. “Jim, is it?”

  “Yes’m.” Preacher seized her hand and gave it an awkward shake. He knew that probably wasn’t what she was expecting, but “Jim Donnelly” was fresh off the farm and probably didn’t have that much experience with women. “I’m mighty pleased to meet you.”

  “You will be,” Cassandra said. “Come with me.”

  She started to lead him out of the parlor, but before they could leave the room, Jessie came through the door. She looked every bit as lovely as she had the day before, and the sight of her made Preacher’s heart slug a little harder for a second.

  She stopped in front of him and smiled at him. “So it really is you,” she said. “When Brutus told me, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. And you work for Shad now.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Then you’re welcome here. Just behave yourself.” She gave him a stern look, and he could tell she wasn’t joshing. “No more brawling.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said with a shake of his head.

  Jessie’s smile came back. “Enjoy yourself, then. Cassandra, make sure Mr. Donnelly is well treated.”

  “Don’t worry, Jessie.” The blonde turned her impish smile on Preacher again. “I intend to.”

  With a swish of skirts and a whiff of some delicate perfume, Jessie moved past them. Preacher heard her say, “Hello, Shad,” and her voice had an intimacy in it that must have made his muscles react, because Cassandra laughed and said, “The way you’re squeezing my hand, Jim, you must be really eager to get upstairs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They were in the hallway now. Cassandra turned to him and leaned closer so that her breasts pressed warmly against his arm.

  “By the time this night is over, you won’t be calling me ma’am,” she predicted.

  Chapter 15

  She was right. Sometime during the next couple of hours—Preacher was a mite vague about when it was, exactly—she told him to call her Casey, so that’s what he did from then on.

  He was lying there in her bed, holding her as she dozed with her head on his shoulder, when a knock sounded on the door. The single candle in the room had burned down to where it cast only a faint, flickering glow. Casey stirred sleepily as the knock was repeated.

  “Donnelly.” The hoarse rasp of Brutus’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Mr. Beaumont says for you to get your ass outta that whore’s bed and get downstairs. He’s ready to leave.”

  Preacher would have been willing to bet that Beaumont hadn’t phrased the order quite so crudely. On the other hand, maybe he had. Preacher didn’t really know Beaumont all that well yet.

  All he really knew was that the man was responsible for the deaths of a lot of people Preacher cared about.

  Preacher threw back the sheet and started to get out of bed, but Casey woke up enough to clutch at him and murmur, “Don’t go, Jim. You’re so sweet, and it feels so good just lying here.”

  Preacher knew better than to put much stock in whore-talk, but he had to admit, Casey sounded sincere. She snuggled against him with an urgency that seemed real, too.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” he told her as he reached up to stroke a work-roughened hand over her blond hair. “When the boss says it’s time to go, I reckon it’s time to go.”

  She sighed. “I know. It’s just that I . . . well, Jim, you’re not really—”

  “You ain’t about to say that I ain’t like all the other men, are you?”

  The words came out harsher than Preacher intended, and as soon as he said them, he wished he could call them back or at least soften them a little.

  But it was too late for that. Casey stiffened, and even though a brittle laugh came from her lips, he sensed that he had hurt her feelings.

  “Of course not,” she said. She rolled over so that her back was turned toward him. “Good night, Jim.”

  “Casey, I didn’t mean—”

  “You’d better go. You don’t want to keep Mr. Beaumont waiting.”

  That was true enough. And Preacher had learned over the years that once a fella said the wrong thing to a gal, it was damned near impossible to fix it right then and there. It took a little time for her to cool down and stop being so het up.

  But chances were that he’d be coming back to Jessie’s Place fairly often with Beaumont, so he’d have the opportunity to see Casey again. Maybe he could make it right with her next time.

  He stood up and started pulling on his clothes. “I had a mighty fine time,” he told her.

  She didn’t roll over and look at him as she said, “I’m glad.” She didn’t particularly sound like she meant it, either.

  Preacher gave a mental shrug and clapped the funny-looking quaker hat on his head. “Be seein’ you,” he said as he went to the door.

  Before he could get there, Brutus’s heavy fist fell on the panel again, and he rumbled, “Donnelly!”

  Preacher jerked the door open. “I’m comin’,” he said. “Hold your horses.”

  Brutus bared his tee
th in a grimace. “You’ll learn not to keep Mr. Beaumont waiting.”

  Preacher eased the door closed behind him and said, “For what it’s worth, Casey agrees with you.”

  “Who?”

  Preacher looked over at Brutus and saw that the man wore a puzzled frown. He jerked a thumb at the door and said, “Casey. Cassandra.”

  “Never heard her called Casey before. ’Round here she’s always been just Cassandra.”

  Preacher said, “Huh.” He looked at the door again and thought about the young woman on the other side of it. Had she revealed something to him that she hadn’t shared with anyone else here in St. Louis? If that was true, why would she do such a thing?

  Preacher didn’t have the answers to those questions. Maybe he would learn them in time, he told himself as he followed Brutus downstairs.

  The parlor was empty now except for Beaumont, who stalked back and forth on the rug with a drink in his hand. When Preacher and Brutus walked in, he stopped, threw back the liquor, and then said, “It’s about time, Donnelly.”

  Evidently Beaumont considered the debt between them squared now. He and Preacher weren’t friends anymore. Beaumont’s voice held a definite tone of employer talking to employee. He handed the empty glass to Brutus and went on, “Let’s go.”

  They stepped out into the parlor, where Brutus handed Beaumont his beaver hat and then draped the cape over his shoulders. Brutus was about to open the front door when Jessie called from the top of the stairs, “Good night, Shad.”

  Preacher turned to look up at her. She wore a long, flimsy gown and robe, and with the light from the landing behind her, the lines of her body were clearly revealed. Her hair was loose and appealingly disheveled.

  Preacher wasn’t sure if he had ever seen a lovelier woman in his life.

  “Good night, my dear,” Beaumont told her.

  “Did you have a pleasant time with Cassandra, Mr. Donnelly?” Jessie asked. Beaumont frowned, as if she shouldn’t even be speaking to Preacher.

  Snatching his hat off his head, Preacher held it in front of him and said, “Yes, ma’am, I sure did. She’s a right nice girl.”